That Lonely Black Boi

[2] Joke's On You Dawg

|Imran Adebayo Ibrahim|

Staring eagerly at my MacBook's screen, I hissed loudly at the realization that Saleem had bailed on me to watch the football game at the local ball-house we occasionally visited back in Nigeria. I always tagged along with him to appear manly and to uphold my father's legacy. My father, may God rest his soul, was an avid fan of the Manchester United football club. We used to watch the games together and sometimes even caught a flight to see them live at the stadium.

Those days were the best. He would insist on me wearing the football club's jersey.

The video call abruptly ended, and I gave up, almost closing the peculiar-looking laptop my mother got for me on her business trip to London. Saleem called me back. I waited for five minutes before picking up, planning to return his calls later, yet also longing for a conversation with my best friend now residing on a different continent.

"How far, nah?" he began, speaking the common English every Nigerian uses, even the wealthy converse in pidgin English (also called broken-English).

"I'm fine," I said, sipping the apple juice I brought from Nigeria. "How's Naija?"

"Fine o!" He exclaimed dramatically, flashing me a tired glare. "See as you dey fresh, just one day for Yankee." Saleem winked, mistakenly referring to London as Atlanta. In Nigeria, London is often colloquially called Yankee.

Fine, you've started glowing in just a day in Yankee.

I clicked my tongue in disappointment. "Mrs. Adesanya will be so disappointed. It's America, not Yankee; there's a major difference." I corrected him, being the meticulous perfectionist I was. Mrs. Adesanya was my favorite teacher back in my Nigerian high school, also my English teacher, who always faked a British accent — typical of English teachers in Nigeria, for some professional air.

"You better drop this your sabi-sabi attitude before they break your mouth at your new school," Saleem warned me as he often did.

He was right; it wasn't the first or second time I'd been beaten up for my know-it-all behavior. In Nigeria, I was a bully-magnet. They always seemed to find me, even when I tried to be invincible. I hoped that wouldn't happen in the new school I was attending. "They wouldn't do that," I sighed, "—that aside, do you know who my stepbrother is?" I questioned, changing the conversation.

"Who?" Saleem sighed, aware that I enjoyed revealing unexpected information.

"It's Zayd freaking Raymond. That famous baseball player is my stepbrother." As much as I hated admitting to that fact, I enjoyed the bragging rights Zayd's fame brought me at that tiny moment.

"What the heck!" Saleem exclaimed from the screen. If we were physically chatting, he would have slapped my head. "Boy! That's big news. It's great to have a handsome and kind stepbrother." He congratulated me, nodding happily. I knew he was proud of me.

Thinking about it, I noticed there was nothing kind about my supposedly stepbrother. He was rude, bratty, and most importantly, disrespectful. The way he spoke to his stepmother, if I were to even look at my mom directly in the eyes, my granny would hear about it. "I don't know about the kind part, but he's kind of handsome," I acknowledged.

Saleem sucked on his teeth, "never meet your heroes, they say. So now you're officially Imran Raymond?"

I glared at Saleem askance. "Never. Gonna. Happen. I am Imran Adebayo Ibrahim, and I'll forever stick to my heritage. I'm not taking some white man's name," I spat in disgust.

"Pelé, Mr. Nigerian. Sha be careful."

I pouted as I flashed my well-spread five fingers at him. That action is regarded as an insult in Nigeria, especially to one's mother. "I've heard you—" I yawned, "—how's mum over there? How's your little sister?" I added, sucking on the empty Happy Hour juice box.